


Too much, too much, too much, is never enough

by Emotionally Compromised Robots (CDRomelle)



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Communication during sex, Laughter During Sex, M/M, Overstimulation, Porn with Feelings, Sex Toys, Vibrators, saying "stop" is sexy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:08:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26310907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CDRomelle/pseuds/Emotionally%20Compromised%20Robots
Summary: Joe laughs at the attentive look on Nicky's face. "Is this all you've got?"A small smile curves Nicky's lips, and his eyes gleam. "All right, habibi," he says in a tone that would sound solemn to anyone else but which Joe knows is the voice Nicky only uses when he thinks he's being hilarious. "You asked for it."Nicky holds up a small remote control, connected to the vibrator by the white cord, and clicks a button.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 23
Kudos: 304





	Too much, too much, too much, is never enough

**Author's Note:**

> A porn flashback within a porn flashback, or: two times Joe and Nicky went a little too hard too fast, but knew their limits and communicated. 
> 
> Title from "Too Much is Never Enough" by Florence + The Machine

_Cyprus, 1981_

The toy was Nicky's idea. So is the rest of this: Joe on his back on their bed in Nicosia, fully naked, Nicky wearing only his underwear and an unbuttoned shirt that clings to his broad shoulders and billows around his trim hips—hips Joe longs to grab and squeeze and bite, but he can't right now because Nicky is sprawled between his legs, oil-slick fingers stretching him open with cruel methodical patience. 

"I'm ready," Joe says, not for the first time. 

Nicky hums, skeptical. His fingers don't falter. Joe gathers new fistfuls of the sheets he's been clenching for the better part of half an hour. 

"Nicky…" 

"The nice lady at the shop warned me it would be intense," Nicky says. "That we must not rush it." If Joe cranes his neck up to look, he'll see wide green eyes fixed on him with such earnest concern that only a heartless man could doubt his sincerity—a heartless man, or the one man in the world who can see past that grave tenderness to the wicked playfulness that lingers in the millimeter tilt of Nicky's lips and eyebrows. 

"Dio abbi pietà," Joe groans, and closes his eyes. 

He can feel more than hear Nicky's chuckle, their old mattress trembling with it, then shaking with Joe's bark of relieved laughter as Nicky's fingers slide free, tracing down the inside of Joe's thigh before they leave his skin. He lifts his head in time to see Nicky look back at him and, very seriously, hold up a small white device with a cord dangling from one end. He arches one eyebrow, a question. 

Joe's eyes don't leave Nicky's face. "Do it." 

Nicky slips it in, and Joe settles himself quickly. It's no bigger than Nicky himself, after all, and this is far from the first time they have put something long and hard that was not a penis into each other's bodies. _Intense, my ass_ , Joe thinks; that shop lady clearly underestimated her predecessors in this most ancient of trades, not to mention the creativity of two nine-hundred-year-old men. 

Joe laughs at the attentive look on Nicky's face. "Is this all you've got?"

A small smile curves Nicky's lips, and his eyes gleam. "All right, habibi," he says in a tone that would sound solemn to anyone else but which Joe knows is the voice Nicky only uses when he thinks he's being hilarious. "You asked for it." 

Nicky holds up a small remote control, connected to the vibrator by the white cord, and clicks a button. 

Joe sees stars. His back arches, hands desperate to grab the bed, the sheets, Nicky, anything to hold him steady as he screams until he needs to breathe, then screams again. 

"Nicolò, what… Ah, ah, Nicolò!" 

A grin breaks across Nicky's face, wide and bright, and Joe wants to drink up the sight, but he can't keep his eyes open. He can barely hear, over the sound of his own moans, Nicky saying with relish: " _È un_ _vibratorrrrre_." The trills of his R's burrowing into Joe's body almost as brutally as the device itself. 

"Fuck! Fuck!" Part of him is stunned that he's so far gone so fast, but mostly he's just on fire, writhing and bucking into the air. 

"Oh," says Nicky, from both far away and deep inside his skull, "I accidentally turned it on at the highest setting—" 

The sensation inside him drops away to a faint buzz and Joe howls louder than before because that's somehow _worse_ , to have it and then have it taken away—

"No, no," Joe gasps, "Nico, please—please—" 

"You want it on the highest setting?"

Joe sobs, a chest-wracking sob that knocks all the air from his body as he nods, and at the nadir of his breath the vibrator suddenly ratchets back up, so fast that Joe chokes trying to gasp through punched-out lungs. 

Nicky taking Joe in his hand hurtles him right to the brink, everything on fire, every inch of him buzzing and singing and aching, blood rushing like he's falling, but he's not falling, he's hovering, dangling, suspended, pierced, filled. 

It's too much. Is it too much? He's a waterskin with too much water. He needs to release. Needs it to end. Doesn't want it to end. Needs it to end. Needs more. Can't take any more—

—A memory floats up in his mind and he seizes it like it's a lifeline, a little oasis of respite, a relief from a body too incandescent with pleasure to be his anymore—

It happened in a cave outside Ghadamis, or rather a gully where two old sycamore trees grew, their branches forming a canopy over the gouged-out floor. It had once been a river, and a trickle of it still flowed through it, enough to wash better than they had in weeks of travel. 

In retrospect, that should have tipped Yusuf off. 

Nicolò was flirty, in his way. He washed Yusuf's hair in the little creek, he made dinner, he sat close. "Have you written anything lately?" he asked, his eyes dark in the firelight. 

Yusuf laughed. "I have, actually."

"You have."

"A few poems, yes. Would you like to hear them?"

"Always."

That's how it started. From ghazal to hungry kisses, from kisses to tugs toward their bedroll, where Nicolò pulled Yusuf on top of him and said, "Take me."

The frankness of it, the simplicity, the directness, took Yusuf's breath away. 

"Really?"

"There's olive oil in the saddlebag."

They had done this before—sometimes Nicolò receiving, sometimes Yusuf—but it was still early enough in this fluttering, fledgling thing between them that it still felt unfamiliar: a little awkward, a little fumbling. With hands and lips and tongue they both knew what to do, knew what the other wanted, knew how to make each other moan and cry and come, but it was rare, on their long travels, that they had enough privacy and oil and water for washing to try anything more. 

So Yusuf wasted no time diving for the saddlebag and finding the bottle in question. Nicolò was already half-undressed when he got back, shucking his clothes as if they stung his skin. As soon as the shirt was gone Yusuf replaced it with his own body, draping himself across Nicolò's bare chest, winding their arms together to touch in every way they possibly could. His lips found Nicolò's and they kissed, tongues sliding past each other, until Nicolò bit Yusuf's lip hard enough to make him quiver. 

"Hurry," Nicolò muttered into Yusuf's gasp, pushing on his shoulders. "Hurry."

Yusuf laughed. He shifted so he was halfway off Nicolò's body, holding himself up on one elbow, his other hand free to slide down his lover's body. Past two flushed brown nipples, past the smattering of chest hair between them, over the soft flatness of his stomach and the trail of hair that resumed below his belly button, leading him down to his hard flushed cock, a little bead of precome at its purpled tip. Yusuf let his fingers curl around Nicolò's length and stroked him once, loose and teasing, before letting his fingers continue down to the cleft of his ass, the dry pucker of his entrance. 

Nicolò tensed against him and Yusuf pulled his hand away, worried he had gone too fast, but Nicolò had only curled his shoulders off the ground, oil bottle in his hand, to pour it on Yusuf's exploring fingers. It dripped smooth and promising over Nicolò's balls as well and Nicolò shuddered, but he was already pushing his own slick fingers—two of them— past Yusuf's and into himself. He groaned in pain and Yusuf leaned down to lick the sound out of his mouth. 

"Let me." 

Nicolò huffed into the kiss, unrelenting at first, but then he relaxed and kissed back, letting his fingers slip back out of himself and grabbing for Yusuf's hand instead. Yusuf slipped one finger inside and right away Nicolò's head and shoulders came off the bedroll again. 

"How many fingers?"

"One, my love." 

Nicolò shook his head. "Go faster." 

"Habibi, no—"

"I want you _now_ —"

"Let's go slowly—" 

"Why?" Nicolò grabbed his face. In the firelight his smile was like a saif, curved and sharp. "It's not like you can kill me."

And Yusuf could only gape at at him as Nicolò, his Nicolò, without breaking eye contact, wound one of his hands tight-tight-tight into Yusuf's curls, and with the other reached back between his own legs. The flicker of pain rolled over his face like ripples in a pond, overflowed into Yusuf, but Nicolò was relentless, spearing himself with his fingers and Yusuf with his eyes. Yusuf was helpless between his need for Nicolò to slow down and his need for him to go, go, _go_. 

"Take your pants off," Nicolò hissed, a muscle working in his jaw, and Yusuf hastened to obey, kicking off his sandals and trousers as Nicolò slung a leg around Yusuf's waist, using his knees to all but grapple him onto his hands and knees over Nicolò's body. 

"Do it," Nicolò panted, his body spasming as he withdrew his slick fingers to wrap them around Yusuf's dick. "Do it, do it—"

"Nicolò, it will hurt—"

"I don't care." He gave Yusuf's dick a sharp tug, rocking his hips up so the tip touched just below Nicolò's balls. "Yusuf, please." 

Yusuf groaned and lined himself up with a shaking hand. As soon as the tip breached Nicolò's rim, Nicolò planted his feet on the ground and pushed his hips up. Their yells echoed off the gully walls. 

Yusuf tried to pull back but Nicolò's thighs were a vise around his waist. Breath hot in Yusuf's ear, Nicolò panted, "Fuck me, do it, fuck me—" so Yusuf hung his head and let his hips snap forward like his whole body had been craving. Nicolò's body seized up, his head thrown back and his muscles taut and trembling, and Yusuf locked his lips around the knob of his Adam's apple. 

They found a rhythm, Yusuf with his elbows planted beneath Nicolò's shoulders, the two of them pressed together from neck to waist, their grips on each other so tight that it was almost a struggle to thrust as hard as Nicolò was begging him to. 

"Yes, yes," Nicolò gasped through choppy breaths. "Yes, harder, please—" How could Yusuf not obey? The litany of pleas and commands continued until Nicolò had no breath for anything but wordless moans. Nicolò's cock pulsed between them, trapped between their bellies, and Yusuf levered himself up, wrestling against Nicolò's desperate hold, just enough to get a hand between them. 

The touch sent a full-body shake through Nicolò and he groaned through clenched teeth. Yusuf licked at his neck, trying to soothe with his mouth even as he stroked with his hand, the drag rough and quick to match their thrusts. Nicolò's hands were both in his hair now, pulling so hard that it brought tears to his eyes; his mouth found Yusuf's shoulder and he bit down hard, stifling his cries against Yusuf's burning skin. 

"Nicolò, Nicolò…" 

Nicolò bit down harder, whimpering now, almost frantic. Yusuf hadn't seen him like this since the very first time they lay together, when Nicolò had seemed half-crazed by guilt and want, so eager to choke on Yusuf's cock that he had never stopped to think that his gagging might hurt Yusuf as much as it hurt himself. 

This wasn't like that—Nicolò had come so far, God bless him, Yusuf was proud of him and in awe of him every single day—only the wildness was the same, the seething roil of a wave desperate to break. 

"Nico, my love," Yusuf said into his ear. "What do you need?"

When Nicolò's teeth finally came free of Yusuf's shoulder a wail poured out, low and rough and scraped raw with despair. 

"It's too much, it's too much."

Yusuf lifted his head. Nicolò was crying. 

"Too much, too much—" 

Desire curdled into dread. Yusuf pulled away, Nicolò's tight grip fighting against him, and when his cock slipped out Nicolò groaned like he'd just pulled an arrow from his flesh. 

"Nicolò, hayati, are you all right?"

Nicolò cried out. "Please—"

"What do you want?"

"You, you. Touch me, please." 

Yusuf touched Nicolò's cock and Nicolò threw his head back with another tortured wail. He had never been this loud. Quickly Yusuf ducked his head, meaning to slide down Nicolò's body to use his mouth, but a hand in his hair stopped him. 

"No, stay," Nicolò gasped. "Stay, just...stay."

"I will, I will."

Yusuf pressed his face into the crook of Nicolò's neck, slipped his free hand under Nicolò's shoulders to hold him close, close and tight, as with the other he stroked him, hand slick with oil and precome. 

Nicolò was loud, until he wasn't. Yusuf raised his head. Nicolò's face was frozen, eyes closed, mouth open, not breathing. No sound.

"Breathe, my love. Breathe."

Nicolò choked in a gasp—and sobbed as he came, hot white streaks on his own belly and Yusuf's hand. 

When finally he went limp, his body flushed and boneless, Yusuf gathered him against his chest and rocked him, heedless of the mess smeared between them. 

"It's all right. It's all right, my heart, it's all right." 

After a moment, Nicolò trembled again. Yusuf looked up, concerned, but Nicolò was laughing, soft and tired. 

"I suppose I… got ahead of myself."

"I'm sorry," Yusuf said. 

"No, no." He slid his hands up to Yusuf's face and held him tight. "It was—" he struggled for a moment, still unused to talking about sex, and finally smiled— "I would not change a thing." 

Then he dropped his gaze, down to where Yusuf's dick lay half-hard against his thigh. 

"Well," he said gravely, eyes dancing in the firelight as he reached for him. "Maybe one thing." 

Joe remembers Nicky's face back then, more than eight hundred years ago, the way he begged before he was ready to take, his face twisted in an agony like ecstasy. He remembers, with a surge of love too big for his body to contain, the way Nicolò had surrendered, had known his limits, had told Yusuf what he needed, how to love him. The memory pulls from deep within Joe, almost as deep as this goddamned toy, a laugh which turns immediately into a sob, and he knows what he himself needs, he's saying it before he can form the thought of it—

"Take it out, take it out, take it out, and—please. Please…."

"Oh, Yusuf—"

Nicky pulls out the toy right away; Joe's body jackknifes as the sensation and then settles between the familiar weight of Nicky's body against his as Nicky crawls up the bed to press their foreheads together. 

"Are you all right—" 

Joe grabs Nicky's closest hand and drags it down to his own dick. "Touch me, Nicky, touch me, touch me—"

Nicky obliges right away, tilting his hips so he can stroke Joe unimpeded while still pressing the whole weight of his upper body along Joe's chest. His other hand scrapes along Joe's scalp, nails blunt and comforting, his lips cool and dry as they drop kisses on Joe's cheeks, his nose, his beard. 

He feels illuminated from within, every part of him still singing with the memory of the vibrator, an enveloping buzz but not an all-consuming one the way it had been when the toy was still inside him. He can finally focus on the tongue of flame low in his belly, the sensation of Nicky's hand on his dick.

"Nicky…" 

"I have you," says Nicky, as if what pulsed in his hand was a treasure, a sacred thing. "I have you." 

Joe drops his head to the mattress, exhales a breath of sweet release. His orgasm is quick and gentle and profound, spilling against his belly and Nicky's hand, Nicky swallowing his cries with his mouth, guiding him through it as Joe trembles and shakes and laughs. 

When Joe finally goes still, Nicky strokes him one last time, careful not to tease his oversensitive cockhead, then drops his head to rest on Joe's shoulder. 

Joe doesn't open his eyes. Not yet. He knows Nicky will wait for him. 

Sure enough, only when he takes a deep breath and blinks his eyes does Nicky lift his head to watch him. 

Joe smiles, the rumble of a laugh in his chest. Nicky returns it with a shade of hesitation. 

"Are you okay?" 

Joe's smile widens. "Absolutely." 

"Did you… not like it? The vibrator?"

Joe raises an eyebrow. 

"You can tell me," says Nicky. 

"Nicky, my heart," says Joe. "I would not change a thing."

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this on my google drive app on my phone and didn't think I'd finish it, but here we are. Please leave a comment if you like it! 
> 
> Also, that moment Joe has where he's remembering how, um, "intense" Nicolo was during their first time... I'm writing that too >.< It's part of a longer Crusades-era fic that's really mostly an excuse to break out all my old college medieval history textbooks again.


End file.
